The Mourning of One's Brother
by RainyDays-and-DayDreams
Summary: "Mycroft Holmes stared at the paper in front of him blankly. "Suicide of Fake Genius," it reads. The other members of the Diogenes Club carry on with whatever they are doing, while inside Mycroft is slowly falling apart." He can't help but feel guilty about his brother's death, and finds himself wish for another chance. Hints of Mystrade and Johnlock, but not the focus of the story


_**a/n: Hello, lovelies! I can't describe how pleased I am that you have decided to check out this story. This particular idea has been floating in my head for some time, but I only recently took the time to write it down and put it into words. There are mentions of Mystrade and Johnlock in this little story, but they are not the main focus, nor are they meant to be. I wanted to focus on what Mycroft went through after his brother's fall, and the two's relationship with each other. Simply put, Mycroft and Sherlock are my BROTP and I wanted to write a story that more closely examines their relationship. This is the most effort I have ever put into a one- shot. Please leave me a review to tell me what you think! Reviews are to me what cake and Lestrade are to Mycroft- which is to say, rather a lot. I hope you enjoy, dear people!**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I, quite obviously, do not own Sherlock. If I did, season three would've aired over a year ago. Ergo, I am not the BBC. Sadly. *sniffles***_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stared at the paper in front of him blankly. "Suicide of Fake Genius," it reads. The other members of the Diogenes Club carry on with whatever they are doing, while inside Mycroft is slowly falling apart. His brother. His baby brother was who they were talking about. His baby brother and his… his… his death. Mycroft has felt a lot of things coursing through him on a daily basis that he's never felt before. Sentiment, he thinks. It's been getting to him. He can almost feel his sanity slipping away. The emotions come with such startling regularity, it's almost a comfort.

Depending on what he's feeling at the moment, he can almost tell what time of day it is. Confusion in the mornings. Why would he do this? Sherlock hadn't shown any suicidal tendencies in a long time. Ever since he started working for the New Scotland Yard, he'd been an insufferable git. Mycroft knows there's something more to this, he just /knows/. The next emotion is paranoia. Moriarty's (Richard Brooke's?) body had been discovered on the rooftop. He has something to do with this. Mycroft will slowly drive himself mad thinking about it, until he always realizes that maybe, just maybe, there wasn't anything more to it than depression. That's when the guilt begins. By this time it's about noon, and Mycroft is too busy thinking to eat. (Sherlock would notice that he's lost a lot of weight in the past few months, and if he was still around, would no longer be able to make any more jokes about cake and diets.) "What if I could have done something?" he thinks. What if he had paid more attention, kept more security on him (damn Sherlock's preferences), checked up on him more often? Would he have been able to prevent this? What if he's the one responsible for this? He had told Moriarty Sherlock's life story, practically. He had given a man he KNEW was a psychopath with an obsession with his brother information. Maybe that had been what pushed Sherlock over the edge… That's when the sadness begins. Mycroft's been depressed for months, ever since his brother jumped off that roof. Sometimes he'll get angry. Why would Sherlock do this? He should've known that it would affect him like this. He should've known it would affect all of them.

Lestrade has been demoted, and now goes about his job with none of his former enthusiasm and excitement. He almost never speaks to Mycroft anymore. The most they communicate is when one of the two men has a nightmare (and it's always the same man, because the other has to be strong for him), and the other holds them when the other wakes and the shaking begins. Because Mycroft Holmes never cries, ever. Mycroft knows that Greg feels just as guilty as he does. He was the one that tried to arrest Sherlock, after all, even though he never really believed it was him. Mycroft doesn't blame him, though. John and Mrs. Hudson are struggling. Mrs. Hudson has every appearance of having moved on, but they all know she hasn't, and never will. Sherlock was like her son, and she reacts the way any real mother would react when they lose their child. So she smiles, but it never reaches her eyes, and she visits her sisters, and her friends, but she's never really happy. John has slunk back into his post- Afghanistan, pre- Sherlock depression. His limp has returned with a vengeance and his hand trembles so severely that he has difficulty doing the simplest of tasks sometimes. He visits his grave every week, and talks to him every time, as if he was still there. He only ever leaves the flat when he goes with Greg to the bar and gets pissed, which is the only time he lets himself cry, scream into the night about how much he loved his infuriating and beautiful flatmate, and weeps when he realizes he can never tell him. Mycroft has surveillance to make sure John doesn't do anything regrettable, but deep down Mycroft knows that if John decides to follow Sherlock, he won't be able to do anything. Still, he watches him. It's one of the last things he can do for his brother. And even Anderson and Donovan, those two idiotic inspectors who Sherlock often insulted, have been saddened by this. Mycroft knows that Donovan secretly blames herself, for all the times she called him "freak", and her little ploy where she convinced Lestrade to try and arrest Sherlock. Anderson isn't guilty, but he is saddened. Even as much as he hated Sherlock, he doesn't think anyone deserves that. Ever. And Mycroft… well, Mycroft is slowly slinking lower and lower into depression and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

He looks at the newspaper in front of him, and his hands shake with pent- up rage and his vision is slightly red. "Fake Genius," they say. That's one of the most infuriating and laughable things Mycroft has ever heard. If there's one thing Sherlock Holmes isn't- no, wasn't- it was a fake. Mycroft would know. He's known Sherlock since he was a baby, after all.

* * *

Mycroft is back at his and Greg's home again, and he is going through some old drawers in an old desk that is covered with dust. Sherlock would have called it eloquent. That's when he finds it- the trigger. Everything flashes through his mind at once, and he remembers everything.

_Sherlock and Mycroft playing together, enjoying a little bit of happiness. Mycroft holding Sherlock as his brother cried, hiding together in a tree in their backyard to hide from their drunk and abusive father. Mycroft almost dying after a severe beating, and running away afterwards, swearing to himself he'd come back for Sherlock, but never doing that. Not until five years later, and their father dies, and he finds Sherlock a broken person, with none of his former spark of hope and happiness. Sherlock is dead inside, and Mycroft blames himself. _

Mycroft doesn't even realize he's crying until spots on the letter grow dark and blurry. Mycroft reexamines it. It's written in a code Sherlock and he had invented together, in the hopes of keeping what they were saying away from their father. Mycroft has long since forgotten the code, but he recognizes Sherlock's childish handwriting, and he regrets once again the decision he had made so long ago. At the time, he'd seen it as the easiest way out- he could rescue Sherlock later, and they would never have to see their father again. But life didn't work out that way, and Mycroft came close to going for his brother sometimes, but never did. And when he did, he was too late. His brother, his precocious brother with sparkling and curious eyes and a laugh that would always make you smile no matter how bad you were feeling, was using drugs and had tried to kill himself twice in his absence. He'd been hospitalized due to injuries caused by his father once. The new Sherlock hated his brother, and his brother hated himself for leaving him there.

That's when Mycroft knows what he has to do. He stops the shedding of tears, and he slowly leaves his house, and takes a cab, like an ordinary person, or like his brother would've, to St. Bart's. He arrives, slowly climbs up the stairs to the roof, and when he reaches the top he looks down. Mycroft isn't going to follow in his brother's footsteps. That had never been his intention. No, he simply wanted to see what he had seen in his final moments. Maybe, just maybe, it would help him understand /why/ in God's name his brother had done this. He steps up onto the ledge, and looks down. It's exhilarating, and he feels a rush of adrenaline when he sees the ant- like figures of the people beneath him. He's not going to jump. That doesn't stop him from thinking he may have fallen accidently when he hears a familiar voice behind him drawl, "Hello, dear brother. I sincerely hope you aren't about to do something you may regret."

Paling, Mycroft turns around._ No, it can't be._ He'd seen the corpse. He was the one who'd made the ID on the body, for God's sake. Not that the body had needed it, of course. Although, looking at the man who should've been dead and was yet very much still alive, Mycroft began to wonder if the ID on the body had, in fact, been necessary, and Mycroft had missed something at the time.

_No,_ Mycroft thought._ This can't be right._ He stepped off the ledge and began making his way to the apparition on the rooftop with him. Maybe he's finally gone insane, he thinks. If this is what it's like to go mad, maybe it isn't such a bad thing. Finally, Mycroft finds his tongue, which somehow managed to vanish in the shock of seeing his brother's ghost. "Sher- Sherlock?" he manages to spit out. Apparently he didn't have as much control over his tongue as he thought he did. Oh well. No matter. The spirit rolled his eyes at him. "Brilliant deduction, Mycroft. Your speech appears to be improving as well. Truly, great job."

And then Mycroft runs up and hugs him. He doesn't care if it's the most emotion he's shown towards his brother in God-knew-how-long, he did it anyway. The spirit stiffened against him. "Mycroft, what in God's name are you doing? Get off." But Mycroft ignores his little brother's sarcastic ghost's request and keeps hugging him. He's scared if he lets go, the illusion will vanish, and he will be on his own again. Sherlock stops resisting eventually, but is still stiff against the unwelcome contact. Mycroft hears his brother breathe out in a moment of realization. "You still think I'm dead, don't you?" he asks, and if Mycroft didn't know better, he would think he maybe heard some pity in his voice. Mycroft feels himself shaking slightly as he is pulled away from his brother, and his brother holds himself at arm's length.

"Weight loss, sleep deprivation, and some drinking. Such sentiment, Mycroft. Weren't you the one who told me once that 'caring is not an advantage'? It appears as if you made that statement prematurely." Sherlock coughed and looked at the ground, then looked back at his older brother, a tenderer look in his eyes. "I assure you, Mycroft, I am alive. I'm sure you want to know how and why I did this." Mycroft slowly nodded, and Sherlock began his story.

When Sherlock had finished, night had long since fallen, and you could see most of London from the lonely rooftop. The lights of the city shone as brightly as the stars themselves shown, and the general rush of city life was somewhat muted by the late hours. It was still there, though, and formed a steady background noise to the silence that stood between the two brothers. Mycroft didn't say anything. He looked at his brother, truly looked. He hadn't been dead for very long, but he could already see some of the signs of stress that came from faking your own death in his brother's face.

"So what do you do now?" Mycroft said. Sherlock looked his brother in the eye. "I leave. I track down those that were trying to kill John and the others, and I unravel Moriarty's web, strand by strand, while you sit back and run the government." Mycroft can see the fear in his brother's eyes when he says that, and can't help but blurt out, "I'll help," when he does. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, but Mycroft pretended not to notice. "I'll make sure you obtain fake ID's, and will quash any official investigation that opens up." Mycroft doesn't mention that he will keep surveillance on him, because he knows that Sherlock knows. Sherlock knows. Sherlock is silent for a moment, then says, "Thank you," to him, and turns to go away. "Wait!" Mycroft calls out. Sherlock turns slowly.

"Yes?" he asks, cautiously. Mycroft remembers what he found earlier, and remembers, in a series of flashbacks that span a lifetime and last a few moments, every single time he's let his brother down. "I-" Mycroft begins, then stops. "I'm sorry," is all he says. His brother's return has shaken him to the core, and it is taking all his willpower to not collapse. Sherlock understands though, and for one brief moment, the two share a bit of that bond that kept them together as children. But all moments end, and when this did, Sherlock whispered, "You're forgiven," and then walked away and down the stairs. Mycroft stayed and stared at the stars for a bit longer before getting up and leaving, finally at peace for having been granted what he had sought for most of his life- his brother's forgiveness.

* * *

During the three long years of his brother's absence, Mycroft somehow manages to keep his life from tumbling down around him. He manages to keep his brother's secret safe, and keeps him mostly out of trouble. He keeps John mostly safe, even though the man never moves on, and he manages to not feel guilty about keeping this from Greg. In short, life went on.

And when Sherlock finally returned, thinner and paler than anyone had seen him since before he'd gotten clean, but mostly unchanged, Mycroft can't help but secretly breathe a sigh of relief. John gets his miracle, and the two finally admit their feelings for one another. John is kidnapped frequently by Mycroft to see how he is doing. Sherlock and Mycroft go back to their usual games, but something is different. Maybe it was the mutual acknowledgement of brotherly caring towards one another back at the rooftop, but their relationship changes. Now, when they insult each other, it is no longer meant to hurt, but is more of a friendly jibe. And they both know, no matter what, that the two brothers will always be there for each other in the end. Because try as they may, no one could ever separate the bond between those two brothers. And they were pleased by this.

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**_Again, please review, and I love you all!_**


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